


The Dancing Detective

by spycandy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the trail of an assassin, Sherlock goes undercover in a dance company</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancing Detective

“The ballet?” echoed John, looking up from the slice of warm toast he was buttering for breakfast. “I've no idea. Can't say I've ever been to one – or given it much thought really.” Not since Harry had refused to go to lessons any more and set her pink shoes on fire just to be sure.

Sherlock turned back to his emails with a small snorting sound that could have meant anything from 'fair enough' to 'uncultured oaf'. A gust of wind clattered raindrops against the windows of 221b, making John even more glad for once that there was nowhere he needed to go with any degree of urgency. Despite his long lie-in, the sky over London was still barely light, making the cluttered flat seem all the cosier. He'd make an effort at a bit of tidying up though, once he'd finished his leisurely breakfast.

“Hold on a minute. Why do you want to know if I'm a ballet fan anyway?”

“Because I've got two tickets for _The Stone Flower_ here,” said Sherlock, indicating the booking confirmation on his screen.

“Is this related to a case?” asked John. Starting with the ill-fated date at the Chinese circus, John's exposure to the performing arts had been considerably broadened by stake-outs at concerts and a memorable incident at the Globe Theatre, but classical dance would be something new.

“Not a current one. Something I solved a few years ago,” said Sherlock.

“Ah, a gift from a satisfied client then?”

“Oh no, the client wasn't satisfied at all. Never mind – I don't think I'll go.”

Chewing on his toast, John raised his eyebrows in question. This sounded like an interesting story to pass the morning while the storm raged outside. Tidying up was entirely forgotten.

~~~

“Extension Samuel! Your arm looks like ze piece of seaweed,” fumed Madame, her wandering accent leaping from Lithuanian to French, mid-complaint. “I am forced to vonder vether you have ever had a ballet lesson in you life.”

From the wings stage left Tatiana threw Sherlock a scowl of exasperation. That was foolish of her, and far more likely to undermine his disguise than a momentary lapse of grace. Madame had already levelled similar accusations at several other members of the corps that morning for far more egregious errors.

>>>

It was three weeks since Tatiana had contacted Sherlock via his website. After several alarming incidents, the dancer had written, she was convinced that someone in the theatre was trying to kill her.

“Professional jealousy?” asked Sherlock, when she visited his dingy bedsit room. The slim, pale woman did not remove her chic beret or light grey trench coat as she perched on the arm of a chair, whose seat was piled high with tattered copies of the _Camden New Journal_.

“Political assassination,” she replied, full of steely certainty. Under Sherlock's questioning gaze, she went on to explain that her father was an opposition politician back home and had become the target of certain interest groups after refusing to take their bribes. Now, she feared, they were seeking to punish him by attacking his daughter. “They have already tried sabotage, electrocution and poisoned make up! Who knows what will be next? I am so very afraid, Mr Holmes.”

“The case is intriguing,” said Sherlock, “but I will need to observe you at work in order to make any progress.” He paused for a moment, contemplating whether it would be possible. “Very well. Arrange for me to audition for a part.”

“You dance, Mr Holmes?”

“I am sure I can achieve a passable standard.”

Anger flashed in the dancer's eyes in response to this casual claim. “It takes years of work!” she snapped.

“I assure you, I am an excellent physical mimic. You will show me what to do. And I will find your assassin.”

They finally came up with a compromise. Tatiana would introduce Sherlock as Sam Hartfield, an old friend returning to performance after serious injury and looking for a minor character role. A short trip to Covent Garden provided appropriate black lycra rehearsal wear and soft leather ballet shoes and Tatiana rented a small studio where they met each day for a fortnight to perfect the disguise.

In spite of aching feet from the second day onwards, Sherlock had rather enjoyed the gruelling training -- the ferocious focus on movement and detail required, for once, almost all of his concentration. It was not difficult to memorise the steps and positions, but striving for perfection in posture and poise, for fluidity of movement and apparent effortlessness, was a thrilling challenge. And by the day of the audition, Tatiana was forced to admit that he could, perhaps, pass for an out-of-shape and out-of-practice professional.

>>>

“Leeds,” said Sherlock.

“What's that?” asked Nick, who was balancing on one foot beside him, while working on a hamstring stretch, as they waited to be called back onto the stage.

“That's where she's from. You were wondering about Madame's accent.”

“It does seem to travel around rather a lot, but Yorkshire? Really?”

Nick was all puppy-dog admiration as Sherlock explained the simple chain of deduction, but then the 19-year-old had been half-smitten with Sam and half-pitying ever since the first day of rehearsal when Sherlock had improvised the sad tale of his injury – hit by a tram while on tour in Germany, hip shattered, two years of intense and painful physiotherapy, would never – sigh – grand jeté again.

However, solving the small mystery of Madame's unexotic origins was not much help in uncovering Tatiana's suspected assassin. Nick was easily eliminated from enquiries, as he had joined the company after the first two incidents. Besides Tatiana herself the other principals were Danielle and Tonio. It seemed unlikely that any organisation was training its career assassins to dance as well as they did or would permit such illustrious stage careers and Sherlock's careful observation revealed no money worries, no scandalous vices and no secrets that would leave either of them vulnerable to bribery or blackmail from serious organised criminals.

In the small corps, Nick and 'Sam' were joined by Dumaka, who had greeted Sherlock on his first day with the cryptic words, “Italian birds, circling on rising?”

“Pardon?”

“Seven letters, fourth one O.”

“Ah,” Sherlock had said. “It's a down clue then,” just as Dumaka said, “Geese! It's Genoese,” and scribbled in the word to complete the grid, grinning with satisfaction. Again there was nothing whatsoever to suggest the crossword-addicted dancer had any murderous intent.

The women of the corps were Kayla and Alice, who made a contrasting pair. Kayla was calm and graceful, volunteered at a church youth group after work on Tuesdays, but dreaded it, and wrote poetry using the text function on her phone if there was no paper to jot her thoughts down. And Alice lived up to her nickname of Tigger.

“How could you be educated in England and not know Tigger and Pooh?” asked Dumaka when Sherlock questioned the nickname. “I grew up in Nigeria and went to school in France and I know Tigger.” The next day, Nick, Alice and Danielle all brought their own copies of _The House at Pooh Corner_ from home and a reading was held during one of the rehearsal breaks in order to fill the shocking gap in Sam's knowledge. It was obviously insufferably twee, grown adults indulging in such childish tales for his benefit, and yet Sherlock's laughter at Kayla's squeaky Piglet and Nick's mournful Eyeore was not, perhaps, entirely faked.

Finally, with observation getting him nowhere, Sherlock concluded that the culprit was not currently in the theatre, but clearly witnesses were. It didn't take too much effort to bring a conversation with Nick around to the one incident that had happened since he had joined the company a few months earlier.

“You mean when Tatiana's glowing swing blew a fuse? Yeah, I was here when it happened. It was the technical rehearsal and the first time she'd tried sitting on that ridiculous light-up contraption. With all the sparks and bangs, it was pretty spectacular. It was all completely safe really though, they just meant to tease her.”

“What? Who?”

“It was Steven and Farouk's plan – the props guys... Oh my God, do not tell her it was them. Sorry, I know she's your friend from before, but she went completely nuts over that, yelling and screaming about getting people fired.”

“Her father's job... it makes her a target for assassins,” hissed Sherlock, playing every inch the defensive friend. “Of course she went nuts, she was terrified.”

“Oh my God,” said Nick again. “Poor Tatiana. Everyone just thought she was being drama queeny.”

Was that it? Mystery solved? Could Steven or Farouk have been hiding real murderous intent behind a prank gone wrong? Only it hadn't gone wrong, had it, so was there actually no attack at all? And did either of them have anything to do with the other two incidents?

>>>

“The one with orange Baltic amber and silver leaves?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes! How did you...? Have you found it?” Alice's tear-filled eyes brightened at the description of her lost bracelet. Sherlock considered quickly. Would working out where to find her bracelet risk blowing his cover, or would it be a good way to ingratiate himself with Tatiana's understudy and make some progress in the investigation? He studied the girl for a moment and found the solution to the small mystery right there on her face. Oh, it was just too tempting.

“Your flatmate should be home from her night shift by now. You should call her and ask her to check your jewellery tree,” he said.

The dancer frowned, uncertain and somewhat unnerved, but she reached into the pocket of her tiger-print warm-up top for her phone.

“Hey Tiff! Can you pop into my room and check something? My Gran's bracelet – yeah the amber one. Is it on the... it is! Oh thank you! Nah, that's all, see you later Tiff. Bye-ee.” She shoved the phone back into her pocket and pounced on Sherlock, her tiny frame wrapping him in an enthusiastic hug. “No way Sam! How could you possibly have known that?”

Several other dancers in earshot in the rehearsal room had also turned to listen in on the conversation by now.

“You weren't wearing it when I saw you first thing this morning,” he said, “and that top fits snug to your arms so it couldn't have been concealed. Also you're only wearing mascara on one eye, so it's obvious that something distracted you during your morning routine and you forgot to finish your make-up or put on the bracelet.”

“Oh yes, a parcel arrived for Tiff. I had to sign for it. Okay, that makes sense, but how the heck do you know I have a jewellery tree?”

“There's a small kink in the wire of your black and red necklace, it's a dead giveaway,” said Sherlock. Alice's hand shot to her neck, but she wasn't wearing any necklace. “I observed it on Tuesday,” he added.

As the diminutive dancer bounced away, her customary cheerfulness restored, Dumaka turned to Sherlock. “You must pay a lot of attention to Alice,” he said. “Is there something...”

“Huh?” It took a moment for Dumaka's meaning to sink in. “Oh no, nothing like that. I pay attention to jewellery,” he improvised, Sam's backstory gaining yet another layer. “It was my father's trade.”

>>>

Although they spent most of the time working in the mirrored rehearsal studio, they would occasionally decamp to the theatre itself, to work on blocking and familiarise themselves with the shape and feel of the auditorium. The next time this happened, Sherlock grasped the opportunity to investigate underneath the stage. While Madame was working on a long piece involving only the four women, he excused himself and slipped away.

There were a number of hatches and trapdoors accessible from below the stage, but Tatiana had described the exact position of the one which had given way beneath her feet. The release mechanism appeared to still be perfectly functional and it was not new enough to have been replaced since the incident, so it could not have been a simple case of untimely breakage. However, the pattern of wear in the wood around the catch suggested that it had, at some time, been propped shut without closing the fastening. This time it did look like sabotage – although the fall was hardly far enough to guarantee a broken neck. A turned ankle seemed more likely – which would be an inept move from a professional assassin. That brought Sherlock back to the possibility of professional jealousy as the motive.

Footsteps thudded rhythmically above his head as the dancers crossed the stage.

“It's not exactly original, but it does work,” said a voice from the dark recess of the under-stage area. “Looks just fine from above, until it has to take someone's weight.”

Sherlock turned around slowly and saw Tonio coming towards him, stooping in the confined space. A confession was entirely unexpected. Would there now be some attempt to shut him up?

“You've done it before then?” asked Sherlock.

“Last season,” confirmed Tonio. “Oh don't look so worried Sam! I didn't let anyone fall. It was Tatiana, of course. Even though we danced together every night, she seemed to barely notice me, but I thought saving her life – or at least saving her from some bruises – might catch her attention.”

“So you rigged the trapdoor to fail just as she landed next to you, then you swept her into your arms.”

“Exactly. It didn't help much though, she was more intense and aloof than ever,” said Tonio. “You knew her when she was younger didn't you? Has she always been so prickly?”

>>>

“And five, six, seven, eight. Sobresaut, sissone, sissone, energy, more energy!” demanded Madame. “Nicholas, vere are you going? If you finish over there you vill block Danielle's entrance entirely. The whole scene will be ruined. All of you back to starting positions! And ready...”

It had been an exhausting day and Sherlock was beginning to feel light-headed with weariness. Of course he had worked long hours on cases before, not to mention pulling all-nighters in order to monitor experiments. Neither cases nor experiments were usually so physically demanding, but he had every confidence that all that was required to withstand the ludicrous demands of his body for rest was a little stamina, a little mental effort and a good glug of caffeine. There was just one more of Tatiana's 'incidents' to explain, but no amount of research into obscure poisons had revealed anything that could have had the effects described on contact with skin. Sherlock blinked a few times to bring the rehearsal studio back into focus and bounced on his toes as they waited for the music to start.

As he sprang into the air in perfect unison with Nick, Dumaka and Tonio, lightness seemed to suffuse his whole body, each further jump in the sequence seeming to float in defiance of gravity. It felt glorious. Extraordinary. His arms unfolded into the golden glow of the music and...

“Sam!”

“Samuel!”

“Is he injured?”

“Don't move yet, you fell on your bad hip. Does it hurt?”

Bad hip? It took a moment for his fuzzy consciousness to remember the fictional tram, although the pain in his hip was now entirely genuine. It was just bruised though, from the feel of it. “What happened?” he asked.

“Looked like you passed out mid-jump,” said Nick, who was crouched by his side looking concerned. He dropped his tone to a near whisper. “When did you last eat?”

Sherlock counted backwards. He had intended to grab a tray of dull Pret sushi during the lunch break, but had been distracted by thwarting a pair of shoplifters who were casing a neighbouring camera shop. Breakfast had been a coffee. The previous evening he had spent reading up on last-known whereabouts of various assassins. He recalled unwrapping a biscuit, but may have then left it unnibbled on the bookcase. Which meant...

He'd already hesitated too long. “Oh Sam!” whispered Alice with fond exasperation. “That's not the way to get back into shape.”

“Here,” said Kayla, holding out a ripe banana she had retrieved from the pile of bags at the side of the studio. “Good for energy.” Within a few more moments Sherlock found himself sitting up, rubbing at his sore hip, surrounded by a feast of lunchbox leftovers – rice cakes, carrot sticks and dried fruit – offered by his fellow dancers.

“You should do some cool down stretches to stop zat 'ip from stiffening up,” suggested Madame. “Then go home and rest. You will work hard again tomorrow. Now, Nicolas! I want you to do that again, without drifting off in the wrong direction.”

>>

At last the make-up artists put in their first appearance, the two women carrying box after box into their brightly lit domain. Barely had Sherlock begun to work out how he could engineer private interviews with each of the pair, when he was summonsed for an initial styling.

Sherlock-as-Sam struck up a quick rapport with Daisy, who was grey-haired and motherly and whose eyes sparkled with youthful mischief.

“Poisoned? Oh dear me, no,” said Daisy, while rummaging through the vast array of foundations in search of her very palest skin tones. “Oh that's so typically Tatiana. It was just a theatrical prank – and well deserved really.”

“A prank? But her skin...”

“Clever make up effect that. The foundation goes on smooth but it bubbles up under stage lights. It was designed for that zombie musical that flopped last year.” She chuckled. “It can be a bit hard to remove, but the worst effect it can have on the skin underneath is a bit of irritation.”

“But why did she deserve that?” asked Sherlock.

“After what she said about Hayley's weight? It's hard enough being a size 16 surrounded by you stick insects, no offence Sam love, without _remarks_ being made. Tatiana was lucky not to get the bright green treatment.”

“Turns bright green under stage lights?” he guessed.

Daisy gave him a wicked grin. “Oh, much worse than that. Now, let's have a look at these lovely eyelashes of yours.”

~~~

“It was at that point that I reported all of my findings to Tatiana. Of course, she didn't take well to learning that she had merely been the target of a series of pranks and immediately blew my cover. So the world never did get to see my third guardsman...”

“The tickets aren't from Tatiana then,” said John.

“They're from Nick Mahy, obviously,” said Sherlock, flinging the arts section of one of the Sunday papers at him. “Haven't you seen the reviews? He's playing Danila. The critics love him.” Sherlock sighed. “I thought he'd have given up when I didn't reply to his Christmas cards.”

“Sounds like you made a friend there. So why not go?” asked John.

“Because the person he wants to invite doesn't exist. Sam was an invention, yet he persists in believing that we are friends.”

“Sherlock, you obviously enjoyed their company. I've never heard you describe a group of people so warmly. In that whole story, you didn't call a single dancer stupid or dull.”

“Because they aren't. They're bright, talented, good people, and they've never actually met _me_ ,” said Sherlock, his voice rising with irritation.

It was amazing, thought John, that someone so otherwise brilliantly perceptive could have such a blind spot where being liked was concerned. “Shame to waste the tickets though,” he said. “And there's nothing on the telly. C'mon, that whole story left me wondering what I'm missing about this ballet lark. Let's go.”

>>>

When the final curtain fell, John was uncertain whether he had understood much of the ballet's plot, but he knew that he'd witnessed a fine spectacle of athleticism and exquisite grace. Beside him Sherlock was fizzing with the enthusiasm normally reserved for a locked room double murder.

“That was incredible,” said Sherlock, after the last applause had pattered away.

“You do know you said that out loud,” teased John, earning rolled eyes and a snort of amusement.

“I told you he was good, but there's a maturity now, nuance in every movement. In its own way, it's genius.”

Genius was it? John couldn't help but be tickled at the sight of the great detective, so often scornful of the abilities of those around him, for once knocked slightly sideways with admiration for someone else's brilliance. As the other theatregoers shuffled out of the row of seats, an usher approached. “Mr Holmes? Dr Watson? Mr Mahy would like you to go backstage and say hello,” she said.

For a moment, John thought Sherlock would be difficult and resist, in the light of his previous dismissal of Nick's overtures of friendship, but watching the performance seemed to have worked something of a change in attitude. The usher led them through several corridors to a door to which was sellotaped a cardboard cut-out star with curling points. She knocked, calling, “Mr Mahy, your guests.”

The door was yanked open by the young man who had been taking his bow on stage only ten minutes earlier. Close up, his stage make-up looked grotesque, but underneath it, John could tell was a fresh-faced, handsome young man, who smiled with delight at both his guests.

“Sherlock!” he said, without a trace of any other name having crossed his mind. “And this must be John Watson. I've been reading your blog avidly for months. Come in, come in!”

The next few minutes were a jumble of small talk, effusive praise and reminiscence. “The pas de deux with the Mountain Queen was wonderful, electrifying ... It's an extraordinary piece to dance... What happened to Tatiana?... She's in Canada now... That case with the stolen helicopters!... It was simple really... Hardly! The police didn't know where to start... Did you really only train for three weeks before auditioning?... No one guessed? At all?... Well you had that whole tram excuse – so _tragic_... He couldn't make a salad, you know... He still can't.”

Nick and John both glanced to Sherlock for a reaction to the mention of his culinary limitations, but he had been distracted by a photograph of a smiling dark-skinned baby wearing a babygro covered in cartoon tigers, taped to the edge of the dressing room mirror. “Alice and Dumaka?” he asked.

Nick nodded. “I know. Who'd have thought you could fit another whole person inside tiny Alice? They'll be thrilled to know I've seen you. They live in Highgate now, you should go and visit. Let me get this face off and then we can go for a drink.”

>>

Sherlock was quiet during the taxi journey home and John wondered how much of the bonhomie had been an act. The enthusiasm had seemed genuine enough, but perhaps Sherlock had simply slipped back into the role of Sam for the evening in order to get an awkward social encounter over with.

When they arrived back at 221b, Sherlock disappeared into his room without a word, but John could hear the unmistakable sounds of _rummaging_ as drawers were dragged open and thumped closed. He sat down and leafed through the glossy theatre programme while he waited.

Eventually Sherlock emerged, triumphant with a pair of worn black ballet shoes in his hand. Standing in the doorway, he toed off the dress shoes he had worn to the theatre, then pulled off his socks, replacing them with the ballet shoes. He crossed the room on _demi-pointe_ , elongating his already long legs, and sprang onto the sofa with an absurdly dainty pas de chat. Lying on his back, he flexed his feet in the air, toes first pointed, then curled upwards.

“You know John,” he said. “I think these might make rather good house slippers.”


End file.
